Page 69 of The Rowdy Ones
He slides his hand under my shirt and cups my breast. It’s gentle and sweet. And I hate it.
“Weston,” I start to say but am cut off when his mouth finds mine.
His kissing is deep and desperate. I can’t find it in me to match the passion he’s exhibiting. It’s as though I’m betraying Rowdy in some way and that’s a severely messed-up thought.
Would he be happy to know this is what I’m doing right now?
Absolutely not.
Would I be happy if he were doing the same with Lila?
Anger surges hot through me. Again, no.
I have to stop this.
“I want to make love to you,” Weston murmurs. “We can go slow. I’ll get you off first.”
This is too much.
“No,” I say sharply, words icy cold. “Stop.”
He jolts at my sudden change of heart and immediately removes his hands from under my shirt. This is what makes me feel so horrible. Weston truly is a good guy. Problem is, I’m not a good girl. We don’t match. I’m twisted in the head. Too much has happened to me and none of this feels right as a result.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, regret in his tone. “If I pushed too hard, too fast, please know I’m sorry.”
“It’s not you,” I assure him. “My mind is all over the place. I just need some air. Stay here, please. Give me a minute.”
He starts to argue, but I’m already climbing out of his vehicle and slamming the door shut behind me. It was probably stupid not to grab my coat or my cane, but I need cold air to clear my head.
The snow is thick and I stumble a few times in my effort to escape. Reaching in front of me, I make sure I’m not about to slam into something. My hip grazes something hard and I run my fingertips over it. Feels like a concrete table. I continue on my trek until I can’t hear the car running anymore.
This is better.
But then I trip over something.
I land hard on my hands and knees, sinking deep into a snow drift. A strong scent of something assaults me and I scramble to sit up on my knees. It’s familiar. Metallic. Blood.
An animal?
My heart hammers wildly in my chest as I reach out to see what it was that tripped me. To my horror, I learn it’s a body. Cold, big, muscular. I’m pretty sure I touch a man’s exposed genitals too.
Terror lodges itself in my throat.
He’s hurt. No one lies in the snow, half naked and bloody, and not be injured. I crawl closer and run my palms up the man’s chest. He’s wearing a flannel shirt much like the one Rowdy wears a lot.
No.
No, no, no, no!
When I reach his neck, I feel a massive, stiff hand that’s sticky with blood. My fingers slide along an open wound in the man’s throat that he died trying to hold closed.
Rowdy?
I scream at the top of my lungs.
“Can I wash my hands?” I ask, voice hoarse from crying. “Please?”
The woman detective sighs heavily. “We’ll deal with that later. What is your name again?”
